Mysterious Days
by MRKR
Summary: There is a shady man with no name making his way through the Wastes, and he's got a job to do. A collection of short stories involving the Mysterious Stranger.


The sun hung high in the clear, blue sky; a giant ball of fire amidst nothingness, throwing heat at the speed of light. Heat didn't even begin to describe the temperature. Standing alone in the Wastes, Derwent could feel his blood boiling and his skin burning. He removed his duster, a long brown trench coat, it's surface caked with sand and soot, and placed it on a nearby rock.

He wiped the sweat from his brow in the shade of his cowboy hat, and pulled a holotape out of the jacket, ignoring the fact that his sweat had already returned. Scanning the horizon, he took a seat in the passenger side of the rusted remains of a car. He pressed the play button, and the holotape whirred lightly in his hand.

"Alright, Derwent, here's the deal," said the voice of Chase, the Regulator Master Ranger. "It's a solo job for ya, but that doesn't mean it's gonna be easy. Now, I know you're good, but play this one safe, huh? Okay. As everyone in the Wastes probably knows, a few weeks ago, the settlement Megaton became a fiery crater. The price of building a city around a supposedly dead bomb.

"At first, us Regulators thought it was nothing but pure accident; the bomb was thought dead, but it obviously wasn't. We all knew Megaton was a high-risk settlement. But there's a ghoul in the area, says she survived through the explosion. She says the mayor, Lucas Simms had been looking for someone to disarm the damn thing for years. And, a few weeks ago, he found that someone. But, when they opened the thing, a pulse mine went off and, ten seconds later, Megaton was gone."

Derwent whistled in amazement. _What rotten luck, _he thought._ Finally get someone to kill the damn thing, and it ends up worse than if you just left it alone._

"So, since then," Chase's voice continued. "We've had Regulators on all levels of the force combing the Wastes, trying to find the sons of bitches that rigged it. Our first choice: Talons. Filthy mercenaries, willing to do anything for caps. We've been through small groups and such, but finally, a few days ago, we found a small army of them holing up in Fort Bannister. Derwent, we got the guy. He told us who paid 'im. Of course, he died of natural causes shortly afterward... Naturally, Edgar put a bullet in the fucker's brain!"

As the holotape laughed a bit, Derwent scanned the horizon once more, expectantly. And there was Fort Bannister. The fence surrounding it glistened in the sun as, just beyond it, a murder of crows was enjoying a hearty meal of Talon mercs. His stomach twisted in the most peculiar way, and he had to look away. Now, he focused with all his willpower on the sound of the holotape.

"Same with the rest of 'em. Not a goddamn soul left in the place. Ah, well, a little less grime in the Wastes, eh?

"Anyway, the guy that paid 'im ain't no pushover. We've heard of 'im before. Goes by the name of Cready. Fuckin' infamous in Raider circles. Not so good at keeping a low profile, either. Christ, the file we got on the bastard is practically a novel! He's the guy that busted up Canterbury Commons all those years ago, left the place a friggin' ghost town.

"You know what ya gotta do, Derwent, but just to be safe, let me paint you a picture: I want that fucker's dome polished and sittin' on my doorstep A.S.A.P.!

"We got a lead that Cready and his gang will be in the area of Fort Bannister come Tuesday, no doubt comin' to make another deal with those Talon assholes. Too bad we got there first."

"Yeah," Derwent said to himself. "A damn shame is what it is."

"Well, you'll recognize Cready. Says here he's got a thing for flair, loves to customize shit, has a custom blade he calls 'Tracer', tattoos on his face, green hair. Good luck, Derwent, and 'May Mother Justice Watch Over You'."

The holotape clicked in Derwent's hand when the recording had stopped. He placed it in the driver's seat of the car, scanned the horizon to find nothing, and looked up to the sun. _Must be around 1 or 2._ He sighed, reaching for his duster on the nearby rock and double-checking his equipment for the twentieth time today.

From inside the jacket, he pulled out a machete that still glistened as if it were brand new, despite being so many years old. The blade was so old, Derwent actually considered it his partner. He placed it in the sheath of his leather armor, the blade pressing against the length of his right calf.

From the right pocket, he pulled out an object wrapped tightly in white cloth. Carefully, he unwrapped the package, revealing the scope and lens of a 32 millimeter camera. Placing the cloth in a pouch on his combat vest, he turned over his duster, and across the back, in it's own custom holster, was a standard-issue Regulator hunting rifle.

As he removed the rifle, Derwent thought to himself how any times he had actually used it. He could remember only two times. After all, Regulators usually worked in packs, using the element of surprise and sheer firepower to overtake the bad guys. It was a rarity to find a solo Regulator in the Wastes. But today, he planned on using old Bessy to thin the herd before they could even see him.

In his spare time, Derwent had managed to turn a regular camera lens into a rifle scope. He slid the scope into place atop the rifle, where it locked with a click. He peered through it and adjusted the focus. When he was satisfied, he placed the rifle on the roof of the car. He felt the band that wrapped his cowboy hat. The rifle ammo was still there.

Looking down to his chest, he found two leather straps crossed over his heart. Following them down to his waist, they ended in holsters. Inside the holsters were Derwent's specialty weapons.

He flipped the button that was holding the firearm in place on his right side, and slid it out of the holster, holding it out toward the sky.

A dazzling glint of sunlight caught the surface of the gun, a sparkling chrome .44 magnum with golden swirls adorning the black grip and stretching to the hammer. He pulled an identical piece from the holster on his left. He got out of the car and stood on solid ground. Closing one eye, he held the two of them out in front of him, aimed at the horizon.

"My 'Rigid Wings'," Derwent said aloud. The name was symbolic of the way he felt when using them to do Mother Justice's bidding: graceful. They made him feel like he was part of a ballet of bullets and nothing could touch him, everything was in slow motion. They were beautiful and terrifying.

Just beyond the barrel, Derwent could see a cloud of sand rising far off on the horizon. He opened his other eye and quickly replaced the magnums. He threw his dirty jacket over his shoulders, and scooped up Bessy. It was show time.

_Wings, don't fail me now._

He slid across the hood of the rusted out car and touched the ground on the other side already running. He took off across the stretch of sandy emptiness, his duster flailing out behind him, a patch of boulders a little more than half a mile ahead of him. The wind began to pick up, and Derwent reached for his hat, careful to not let it fly off, taking his precious ammunition with it. He looked back to the cloud of sand. It was much bigger now, menacing even.

When he had reached the boulders, Derwent slung old Bessy over his shoulder, placing her snugly into the holster across the back of his jacket. He grabbed a stone the size of a baseball resting a full arm's length above him and began climbing. Thirty seconds later, Derwent was nestled into a space between two of the boulders, almost completely invisible to the naked eye.

He took hold of old Bessy once more, and pulled her up to let the butt of the gun rest on his shoulder. He pulled out the white cloth and wiped his brow. After returning the cloth, his hand found it's way down to his left pocket, where it felt something cold, metallic. It pulled out a flask and brought it to his lips. The whiskey burned like hell all the way down, but he didn't stop until the flask was empty; his nerves would hurt him much more than any alcohol in the long run. Derwent tossed it aside, where it landed amongst the rocks with a hollow clank. He brought the eyepiece up to his face and glanced through it.

Adjusting the focus, all he could see was the cloud of dust swirling about, with the ferocity of an avalanche. He could see no Raiders, but he could hear them, oh yes. Yelling, screaming, cheering, singing. These assholes were one raucous bunch. From the sound of it, most of them were shit-faced, which brought a smile to Derwent's face. Their reaction time would be slowed. He could take out nearly half of them before anyone noticed.

Then, just as quickly as the noise had begun, an image burst forth from the sand cloud. There was a city bus cutting it's way through the desert. Looking through the scope, Derwent could see that every seat was taken and some Raiders were even standing in the aisle. Along the side of the bus, painted in bright green paint, the words 'Creadys Krazys' were emblazoned. Scanning the windows of the bus, he found a chain wrapped around one of the separations between two of them. The scope followed the chains up, up to the roof of the bus, where they were held by two leather-gloved hands.

Derwent pulled his head away from the scope and wiped his eyes with the white cloth again. He wanted to be sure this was what he was actually seeing. He peered through the glass once more and, sure enough, he was truly seeing it.

There was a man standing atop the bus, holding onto chains which wrapped around window separations on each side. He was screaming much louder than the others, his leather vest flapping in the wind, open to reveal his glistening bare chest. There was a tattoo on his stomach which stretched down to the top of his black leather pants, covered in different kinds of radscorpion shells. His leather gloves, the forearms of which were wrapped in barbed wire, reached up to his elbows. He was wearing biker goggles that were encrusted with sand and dirt, much like Derwent's jacket. The man's jaw was tattooed with what looked to be stripes running from his eyes to his neck. His long spiked hair swayed in the breeze, a sickly green color. This was the target.

Derwent scanned the bus once more, searching for a weak spot, a quick kill, but he found nothing. The gas tank was on the other side and this particular bus was hardly even rusted. He brought the scope up to aim at a large man in the last seat. He was bald and had a handlebar mustache covering his stone-serious expression. Derwent pulled the trigger, and the man's head rolled back to rest on the seat.

_Good,_ he thought. _The barbarian just fell asleep. No mess, no noise, and they're none the wiser._

Next, the scope fell over the face of the woman sitting next to the barbarian. Her hair was in pigtails, and she was singing along with a group of others loudly. Derwent's finger trembled, then fully squeezed the trigger, the woman's head rocking sideways. Then he could make out some of the screams.

"RED MIST!"

"RED MIST, SHIT! THEY GOT MERLA!"

"SHIT! RED MIST! STOP THE BUS!"

"Shit!" Derwent cursed at himself. "You got careless. What the hell were you thinking?"

He heard the gears of the bus shifting down as he scrambled to find at least one more target before they all piled out, searching for him. All of the Raiders were standing now, there would be no more head shots, or 'quickeneasies', as Derwent liked to call them. Thinking quickly, he took a shot at the driver, but missed, the bullet cracking the passenger side windshield and wounding a man two seats behind her.

The bus tore through the sand, bouncing off of dunes, and plowing through others. The Raiders hit one particularly large dune, sending the bus skyward, when Derwent found his mark. He pulled the trigger and old Bessy barked in his hands, sending a bullet careening toward the bus at the speed of sound. A split second later, there was a loud pop, and the bus fell back to earth, landing on a naked metal rim which instantly twisted and melted under the frame of the heavy bus.

Cready on the roof noticed instantly that something was not right. He held on to the chains tighter than before, wrapping them around his wrists. The bus was cruising helplessly through the sand, rushing toward Fort Bannister with amazing speed. It smashed through the fence, sending a few Raiders out through windows and doors, the lucky ones hitting the ground, becoming instantaneous smears across the floor of the desert. Others were caught in the barbed wire above the fence, their guts pouring forth, steam rising from them as they cooked on the ground.

The murder of crows rose up into the sky as the vehicle smashed through the pile of Talon mercenaries, their bones crunching audibly as blood smeared the windshield. Derwent stared in shock as he watched what he had created. From where he sat, he could see Cready's eyes bulging, ready to burst out of his head. Most of the Raiders were silent now, save for a few towards the front of the bus, struggling to move back. Ahead of the bus, there was a sudden drop of maybe six feet, quickly followed by the beginnings of a bunker. The bus rocketed through the air, colliding with the side of the bunker, the windshield bursting outwards and the frame of the bus twisting as if it were tin foil. Cready was only holding on with his left arm as the bus made contact, causing it to tear from its socket, his pain bursting forth in the most hideous and blood-curdling howl Derwent had ever experienced. The driver and a few others were smeared along the low roof of the bunker, others were caught in between the bus and the wall, and still more were pushed through the fence, pieces of their flesh and bone stuck in the openings.

By Derwent's calculations, he had killed nearly half of the Raider party with three shots, and seriously injured a fraction more. He threw old Bessy over his shoulder and slid her into the holster across his back. He pushed the sides of his jacket open and snatched up the Rigid Wings. Pulling the hammer back on both of them, he leapt from the top of the boulders to the ground below and began making his way toward Fort Bannister. Cries of pain and anguish were rising from inside the bus, and Cready was going absolutely crazy on the roof: kicking and screaming, pacing up and down the length of the bus, throwing his chains every which way.

Derwent ducked down along the side of the rusted out car he sat in earlier, and peeked through the hole where the doors should have been. He could see a few Raiders staggering out of the bus, as if in a dream, blood streaming down their foreheads. From what he could see, Derwent counted at least twenty, and then Cready. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

_It's not as bad as fifty,_ he thought. _But it still won't be easy._

"Where are they!?" Cready's voice was frantic. "You! You three! Get out there and find out where the hell those bastards are hiding. I want their sorry asses brought to me. And then I'll tear their fuckin' hearts out! HEAR ME, OUT THERE!? WE'LL FIND YOU, AND WHEN WE DO, I'M GONNA RIP YOUR FUCKIN' GUTS OUT MYSELF! GUARANTEED MOTHERFUCKERS!" His voice echoed across the empty Wastes, falling on only one set of ears. The ears of a man who was now holstering his magnums and reaching for his blade.

The three Raiders, a black woman, a white woman, and a young oriental boy, fanned out, all of them still dazed from the crash. The black woman with a bald head pointed over to the boulders, claiming that would be the only place to hide out here. The white woman with blonde pigtails agreed and clutched her Chinese assault rifle tightly as they began making their way over.

"Stay close, Danny," she said to the boy. "Wouldn't care to watch you die on your first assignment as a man."

The boy held his baseball bat close to his chest and closed his eyes tightly as he swallowed hard. The three of them were making their way closer to Derwent, who was clenching his blade tightly in his right hand. He was sizing them up. Baldy was gripping a kitchen knife in front of the pack. Pigtails was in the center of the group, holding the only firearm, the only real threat. And Danny, well, Derwent couldn't bring himself to kill a child. He had to take out Pigtails first, but Baldy would be first to pass him, and she would surely see him.

As they made their way to the hood of the car, Derwent stealthily slunk around back and waited. The blade glistened in his hand, its thirst for blood growing steadily. He slowly removed his hat and placed it under the car. The stench of blood on the sand reached his nostrils and Derwent felt his face go a little numb. He peeked over the top of the car. Baldy was past it, and Pigtails was dead ahead. He made his move.

He shot up to a standing position, pivoting on one foot, placed the other foot on the trunk of the car and used it as a springboard, shooting himself up and over the car. He held his blade arms length from his body, his face twisted and gnarled in the most gruesome way he could manage, and landed atop Pigtails. He brought the blade in quickly and precisely, opening her throat before she knew he was there.

Baldy reacted to the sound and swung her knife as she turned to face him. Derwent caught her by the forearm and pulled her in to where he held the blade outstretched. It sunk deep into her stomach, hot blood pouring out over his hand. Baldy made a small noise and Derwent reacted quickly, standing up and covering her mouth. He retracted the blade, still holding her face, and jammed it back in one, two, three more times. Her eyes went dull, and he dropped her, turning to Danny.

The boy stood quaking in fear, clenching his baseball bat at both ends and holding it very close to his chest. Derwent reached for the boy, who had his eyes closed, and covered his mouth. Danny made a tiny yelp as Derwent pinched the side of his neck and watched him tumble to the ground.

The wind picked up, kicking dust and sand in the air, ruffling Derwent's jacket, silencing his footsteps. He made his way slowly to the right side of the bus, checking each body for a familiar face, finding none. There was an older man in his late fifties lying in a pool of his own blood, his torso separated from his legs, but he was still conscious. His eyes rolled around in his head, scanning the empty sky.

"Lucy," he muttered. "Lucy, Lucy. Where are the kids at, Lucy?"

Derwent knelt beside him and held the blade to his neck. Staring to the sky with his eyes closed, he leaned on the blade. The man's muttering stopped, only to be replaced by the hurt moans and groans of others littering the ground. Derwent couldn't help but feel guilty for what he had done, wiping human lives from existence. But these were Raiders, he had to remember that. Everyone is human in their final moments, even monsters like these.

Cready was stamping around like a madman, his left arm hanging limply by his side.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS TAKING YOU THREE SO GODDAMN LONG, HUH!? I KNEW I SHOULDN'T A' SENT THAT CHINKY RETARD WITH YOU! GEORGE, LUNE, GET OUT THERE AND HELP THEM, YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHIN'..."

Cready's voice went down to a whisper as he cursed Danny repeatedly atop the bus. Derwent jumped as the side door of the bus opened, and out poured a hulk of a man, blood covering his face and caked all over his armor. He was carrying a sledgehammer.

"Lune is dead, boss," said the man, standing less than three feet from Derwent, facing away from him.

Cready continued muttering and kicking sand off of the roof in a fury. The man turned back to enter the bus and stood face to face with Derwent. They both stopped where they were, Derwent raising a finger to his lips, warning the other man to be quiet. The man looked down to the ground, realizing he was holding a sledgehammer.

"REGULATOR!" the man cried as he lifted the hammer and swung at Derwent, who took a step back, letting the hammer lodge into the side of the bus. Derwent thrust his blade downward, a stream of blood spattering his duster as the man's arm fell to the ground. The man howled in pain, turning in a full circle, giving Derwent time to plan his next attack. He thrust the machete into the back of the man's neck so that it came through on the other side, then swiftly tugged it back as the man's body dropped. He swiped blood from the blade, and sheathed it again. Pulling both hands to his waist, he grasped his Rigid Wings, ready for the dance.

Derwent really felt the whiskey now, his blood pumping faster, pushing the alcohol through his system. A group of four Raiders tore out from behind the bus, Derwent aiming and delivering death with precision. The Wings sent shockwaves up his arms and down through his chest with each shot, making him feel alive; One, two, three, four. The bitter smell of fresh blood spilling out onto the sand met him in a tidal wave, and his eyes reeled a little. He ran to the back of the bus, taking cover against it, when, to his right, the metal wall of the bus exploded with scattered shotgun pellets.

"Holy shit!" Derwent exclaimed as he rounded the bus and jumped in through the side doors. He found a man aiming a shotgun at the holes, his ribs sticking out through his right side, covered in blood, struggling to breathe. The man turned onto his side, thrusting the gun toward Derwent. He kicked the gun away and stamped on the man's face.

"Don't you EVER point a gun at a Regulator," he said, raising a magnum. As he pulled the trigger, the man reverted back to the age of three, fear of death in his eyes, crying for his mommy. Derwent almost felt bad for the man. Almost. His skull shattered into twenty little fragments, teeth flying in all directions, along with brain matter and all manner of liquids.

As he turned to leave, he came face to face with the barrel of an assault rifle, held by a black woman, her dark hair in her face, a tattoo under her left eye. Derwent raised his hands above his head, the Rigid Wings still in their grasp.

"Drop 'em, fuckhead," the woman said darkly. Obeying her command, he dropped them, where they landed atop a mass of bodies with a sickening thud. She cocked the rifle and turned the safety off.

The ceiling exploded inward with more shotgun blasts, which cut the woman into three sections, her eyes growing dull as they slipped out of Derwent's sight.

"Motherfuckin' Regualtors, huh?" Cready yelled from the roof. Derwent leaned down to scoop up his magnums, but was stopped by something cold against his throat.

"I wouldn't do that," said a man's voice. Derwent returned to an upright position, where he noticed most of what he thought to be dead bodies standing before him holding weapons.

"The boss wants to... _talk_... to you," laughed a man with a blonde beard and nearly no teeth. The man who was holding the gun to his throat kicked him in the lower back and screamed "GO ON, THEN!" The man with the beard hit him in the face with the butt of his plasma rifle, sending Derwent face-first down the few stairs of the bus, crashing into the hot sandy ground.

Cready jumped down from the roof of the bus, his feet landing just inches from Derwent's face, kicking dust into his eyes.

"Lift him up," he said, looking to two of the men. They grabbed him under his arms and stood him up, then they threw him into the side of the bus, knocking the wind out of him.

Derwent looked at Cready with half-glazed eyes, blood trickling from his forehead, running down his wind-cracked face, chuckling as he saw Cready's left arm dangling there, lifeless.

"WHAT'S SO FUNNY!?" Cready backhanded him, then reached back to a hood on his vest Derwent hadn't noticed before. He lifted it up and over his head, where it came to rest. Derwent was now starting at a Deathclaw skull with the lower jaw of a man. Cready reached to his lower back and pulled out a shiny blade with the word 'Tracer' etched into it.

"Now, listen up, fuckwad. You're gonna tell me what in the hell you're doing out here, bustin' up me and my boys like this. You're a Regulator, you don't just do this kinda shit for fun, so you better goddamn tell me what's goin' on, man, or..." Cready made a slicing sound as he imitated running the blade across his throat. The two men holding Derwent against the bus began to press harder, ensuring he wasn't going anywhere.

Derwent spit in Cready's face. Cready wiped it away and laughed menacingly.

"Oh, you just made a very big mistake, friend. Very big, indeed."

He signaled to the other Raiders to come on in and have some fun. Ten people came from the sides and began to beat him mercilessly. Five minutes later, Cready stopped them. Derwent could no longer feel the whiskey, but he could feel a jackhammer pounding his brain to mush.

"So, what d'ya think now, tough guy? You maybe wanna talk about this?"

"I'm not tellin' you anything, filthy fuckin' Raider. You may as well just take that pretty blade of yours and put it to some use. Or better yet, give it to one of your friends here and let them finish me. Fucking pussy."

All of the Raiders looked up to Cready in shock. Derwent smirked as he saw his eyes were about to burst out of his head again. He kicked Derwent between the legs. An explosion went of in Derwent's head.

"YOU THINK I AIN'T GOT THE BALLS FOR THIS!? HUH!? I'LL FUCKIN' SHOW YOU! I'LL SHOW YOU!"

Cready walked up and punched him in the ribs.

"HUH!? HUH!?"

He took Tracer in his hand and slid the blade into Derwent's side. Derwent grunted.

"No! ...Not there, idiot! Hch... I have an itch... about an inch higher!"

Cready took a step back as Derwent laughed. His right eye was twitching now, and his breathing had sharply increased. He raised the Tracer into the air, making a deadly dive into Derwent's neck, when Derwent threw his foot out to meet his stomach. Cready dropped the knife to the ground and one of the bastards holding Derwent punched him.

Then there was blood. A lot of blood. A red mist floated out in front of Derwent, and he could feel both grips loosen on his arms. He quickly looked around to see the heads of Raiders exploding and bursting outward. A duster appeared in one spot, then quickly disappeared and resurfaced again and again, moving as a mirage. Each split second glimpse was announced with the sound of a gunshot and a cloud of blood. When all the Raiders but Cready had been put down, Derwent heard a thump on the roof of the bus.

He turned just in time to see it. There was a man, dressed exactly as he was, duster, ranger hat, even the magnums, standing on the edge of the bus' roof. He leapt off, launching himself into the air, twisting and flipping, his jacket flapping in the air. The man was upside down in the air, holding both magnums out before him, aiming directly into Cready, crumpled on the ground. There were twelve rapid gunshots as Cready's body exploded in a mess of blood and guts, fragments of bones and organs flying.

The man landed on the ground just beyond the bloody mess, facing away from Derwent. Derwent's throat was dry and swelled to twice its usual size. He wanted to say _who are you?_, but all that came out was some raspy air.

"You don't want to know, friend," said the man, turning back to him. "Just realize that you are still standing because you have humanity's best interests in mind. You and your kind ensure that justice and order prevail over all. Unlike these... monsters."

He holstered both of his magnums and walked over to the bloody mess that once was Cready. He knelt down, picked up a few bone fragments, and tossed them aside. Derwent was still too terrified to move.

"You know, after the bombs fell," the man continued as he stood up, wiping his hand on his coat. "Something a whole lot bigger happened than just... _war_. Humanity stepped up to a challenge: evolve or die. Suddenly, none of the 'old world' stuff mattered. Race, color, creed, none of it was important because you had to look out for your neighbors so they would look out for you. If that didn't happen, humanity would be gone. Its entire history a blink of an eye in the universe."

"Who... who are you?" Derwent finally mustered. "What are you talking about?"

"I've already told you who I am, friend. You don't want to know."

"But I do. I– "

The man pulled a magnum out from one of its holsters.

"You do, do you?"

He opened the cylinder and let the rounds fall out into his hand, smiling at Derwent. But it wasn't a sincere smile, no. It was the smile of a madman, off in his own little world. He put one round into the cylinder, whirled it quickly, and closed it back up.

"What do you know about karma, Regulator?" the man questioned. "The Bloatfly Effect? Nothing? Well, let me tell you all about it.

"Karma is the idea of 'what goes around, comes around'. You do something nice for someone along the line, and later on, someone will do something nice in return. It works both ways. You treat people like shit, like our good friend Cready over here, and that's exactly what you get in return: shit.

"The Bloatfly Effect is a similar idea. It says that the wind created from a Bloatfly batting it's wings can cause hurricanes half a world away. Every solitary action ripples across the universe. One good thing leads to another, and vice versa."

"What does this have to do with anything, stranger?" Derwent asked.

"You haven't figured it out yet?" the stranger said, pulling back the hammer of his magnum. "Okay, then. Let me put it simply."

The man held his magnum at arm's length, the barrel directed at Derwent's head.

"If I were to pull the trigger, what kind of ripple would I make, hm? Do you know, friend? Were you good, or were you... not so good?"

Derwent's pulse began to rise. He could feel his blood pumping in his temples, and his heart was in his throat. There was nothing he could do. For the first time since becoming a Regulator, he was absolutely helpless. For some reason, it all seemed funny to him, and he began to chuckle.

The mysterious man before him gave him a puzzled look.

"If all of that stuff you're talking about is true," Derwent began. "Pull the trigger, and find out for yourself, stranger. If I was bad, then good things come of it. If I wasn't, well, I'd hate to be you."

The man smiled.

"You're starting to understand. Good."

He pulled the trigger and a bullet exploded out. Derwent's eyes shut tightly as he anticipated death, but it never came to him. A few moments later, he opened his eyes, and standing before him was the man, clutching a smoking bullet between two fingers.

"You have to understand," the man said, staring into Derwent's eyes. "In order for something to change humanity so much– bringing everyone together, wiping out the 'old world' prejudices– there has to be a power higher than humanity at work, right?"

The man placed the bullet into a pocket of Derwent's combat vest, and turned to leave.

"You truly are a good man. One of the last few. Don't you ever forget what happened here today. Hold it in your heart forever. But tell no one of what transpired here."

Derwent raised a hand to the pocket and felt the outline of the bullet. He looked at the man walking away from him in amazement, when he stopped and turned back.

"Also, you take care of that boy. But, if I know you, you already knew you couldn't just leave him out here."

The man turned with a wave, his duster billowing in the desert wind, his footsteps kicking up dust. Derwent was still holding his vest pocket, his mouth agape. He thought this day would come sooner, but thinking back on today's events, he decided that today was the best time it could have happened. He owed his life to the mysterious man of the Wastes.

After some time, Derwent managed to pull himself away from the side of the bus. He went inside, grabbed his magnums and holstered them, then made his way out the opposite side of the bus. He walked over to the crumpled frame of Danny, and lifted him up to his chest.

"Let's get out of here, Danny."

He looked back at the bus and smiled. After all the years of hearing the legend– the myth– of the Wasteland, he had finally encountered the fabled Mysterious Stranger. And he had a job to do...


End file.
